


Battles

by JoPoGirlsKickAss



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark - Freeform, Death, F/M, Godswood, Heart Tree, She-wolf - Freeform, The Long Night, The Night King, Weirwood(s), Winterfell, no one - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoPoGirlsKickAss/pseuds/JoPoGirlsKickAss
Summary: Arya would do what she was born to do, to fight, to protect.Follow Arya through the Long Night and aftermath.





	1. Before Death

Arya exhaled as Sansa left her side.

As calm as still water.

Focus. Clarity. The mission. Kill that which is already dead.

A slim hand lifted an arrow, notched, targeted, and loosed.

Again.

And again.

She didn’t need to see the rotting flesh turn to dust; she knew the arrows struck true the moment they left the string. A feral grin rose and Arya didn’t bother to hide it.

Notch. Target. Loose.

Notch. Target. Loose.

Notch, target. Loose. 

Notch, target, loose.

_Notch, target, loose._

_Notch,target,loose._

_Notcttargetloose._

Again. Again. Again.

Figure after figure fell to the dragonglass tipped arrows, bones and sinew shattering in the firelight.

It was like a prayer.

Valar morghulis.

The battle roared around her. By all rights she should have been terrified as the retreat continued, but this is where she belonged, what she’d survived for—to protect what was left of the pack. Arya wanted to lift her head and howl. But a command ripped through the air and she shifted her fire to the trench and loosed. She growled as the lighted arrow snuffed out. She tried again. Nothing. Arya growled as she drew another arrow, then, the red woman.

Arya fired at the dead as the red woman chanted. Loose. Shatter. Loose. Shatter.

The dead were nearly at the witch. Arya loosed on one, but another took its place, then another, and another. Arya felt her blood slick on the string, but notched again. Protect.

The trench bloomed in white, red, and yellow as the fire ripped through the wood.

The retreat finished. The gates closed.

Arya lowered her bow and watched as the dead finished the Unsullied who’d protected the retreat.

Valar morghulis. 

The dead stood still. Arya felt the tension, could smell the fear of those around her, could hear the hope on the wind. She grimaced, she knew better; there was no place for hope when battling the dead.

Arya watched as the dead began to fall into the fire. They were too fast and there were too many of them.

This was it. The dead were coming.

Arya notched and loosed.

She heard the command for manning the walls, but continued to loose.

The battlements grew crowded. She felt the change in soldiers around her. Loosing one last arrow Arya shoved her bow into the hands of the nearest archer and lifted her staff.

As calm as still water.

It could have taken the wights hours or seconds to reach the battlements, but it was no matter to Arya, only that they had reached the top of the walls.

Quick as a snake.

Arya almost laughed as she twirled her staff into the face of a dead man.

This was what she born to do.

Lifting the staff in an arch she shattered two more, the draw back felling another. Swing low. Curve high. Left, left, right. Twist, swing, pivot.

Shatter, shatter, shatter.

This was living. Flashes of forest and sinking long teeth into warm flesh swarmed Arya’s vision, but rather than distracting her it only brought a feral energy to her movements.

This was _living_.

Out of the corner of her eye Arya saw a grey soldier standing still upon the stairs watching her, and she growled in annoyance. Had she had a mind to she would have shouted at the man to help, but he’d only get in her way. 

Running another wight through with her staff, she leapt forward tucking her chin to her chest as she rolled down the bodies of the walking dead. 

Crashing to the stone Arya held still as the wights moved around, but one caught her scent. Shoving forward Arya attempted to slice at him with her split staff. The wight fell into her and white blinded Arya as her head slammed into stone. 

Her vision swam, but she had been Blind Beth, this was nothing. The world cleared and fell back into place.

Glancing up Arya saw two wights struggling to get through the walkway. She watched with strange fascination as the bones shifted and moved, sliding over one another, as the blue eyes stared at her with no emotion, no weight, no life. She saw in their eyes what the House of Black and White had tried to make her, a waif, a lifeless husk, a killer. No one.

Curious Arya shifted to her feet, moving forward she examined the blue eyes and saw herself reflected.

Arya snarled as one wight broke free and caught the back of her arm with his sword. His shift broke the dam and wights tumbled towards her intent on the kill. 

She turned and ran. 

Quick as a snake. 

Arya leapt over the dead and dying, down stone stairs, across another battlement. Rounding a corner she skidded to a halt ducking beneath a rusted wight’s sword. She saw an opening and sprinted forward, crashing onto the thatched roof. She rolled out of the way as a wight went careening past her and slid off the roof followed by another.

Seeing the wave that followed Arya scrambled to her feet and dove through the opening in the stonework to her right.

She knew this place.

Unsure of what carried her forward Arya followed her feet, wiping away the red that stained her vision.

Quiet as a shadow.

She came to a heavy wooden door enforce with wrought iron, slowly to avoid the creak of the hinge she slipped through the gap and closed it behind her.

Books. Shelves. The library.

Arya flitted to the ends of one of the standing shelves as a sword scraped along the stone floor. She dropped into a squat and took a deep breath.

She listened, sniffed the air, could taste the decaying flesh on the air.

Quiet as a shadow. 

She shifted to the next bookshelf. Then again, to the next. With the barest of movement she looked past the shelf and saw the wight moving away from her, the dead form brushing against the old tomes as it went. 

She was less than a whisper as she moved again. Slowly she turned the corner –immediately she cursed herself for not seeing as Syrio had taught her. Without a sound she shift back to the end of the bookshelf away from the approaching wight.

Chains clinked and a wight turned around the end of a far shelf. Arya dipped between the aisles pressing herself against the old tomes. She moved silently along them, until she was near the other end. She listened and watched.

Arya tilted her head upward towards the ceiling and silently cursed; dropping her chin she took a short breath. 

Quiet as a shadow.

She moved, slipping silently with the grace and ease of a cat, under the table.

Still holding her breath she waited. Listened. And heard.

_Drip._

_Drip._

Arya barred her teeth as bones clicked and moved over one another. She’d been made.

_Drip._

The clicking dead steps grew closer. She had to time this right.

Quick as a snake.

The sinew of the leg stretched and the knee hit the ground with a sharp thud.

She waited. 

A hand palmed the ground and the pelvis shifted.

She moved. Sliding backwards, she turned and darted along another bookshelf, posting at the end of it. 

She was shaking. She let out a silent long breath, whispering in a new one.

Peeking around the corner she saw the wight on the ground move to his feet, the eyes glowing.

Arya inched around the other side of the wood, she snatched the lone tome from the table and tossed it towards the door she’d come through.

The instant the book thudded to the ground the wights were on it like lion to a fallen gazelle.

Arya moved, flitting between the next bookshelves.

The dragonglass sword she’d picked up sank deep into the soft rotten underflesh of the wight’s chin, the movement pure reflex; she’d felt the wight before she saw it and thanked her days as Blind Beth for the improved sensory reaction.

The wight was new enough, and held enough flesh and fat that it didn’t shatter causing bones to rattle to the floor.

Arya lowered the body to the floor, ignoring the purulent-metallic taste as the blood splashed her lips. She slipped past the remaining table watching the back of the wights as she slipped through the wooden door opposite them.

Just as the door was closing behind her Arya she heard the sounds of wights from behind the door to her left. Arya shifted backward down the narrow hall, watching the two doors. The noises grew louder.

Arya turned round just as the doors slammed against stone. She pushed forward sprinting away from the dead as they followed. 

Arya could feel her heart pounding in her ears as she rounded a corner, it was loud enough to nearly drown out the sounds of the wight behind her.

Turning another corner Arya saw the wight before it saw her. She slipped past it, her blade catching its throat as she went.

Glancing back Arya saw the others were still intent on her. She ran down another hall, she turned the corner and threw her shoulder into the stonework to slow her momentum.

The soft thud of her body wasn’t quiet enough. The wights at the other end of the hall turned upon her, blue eyes glowing.

Arya stepped backwards slowly, her head swiveling from left to right. From one group of dead to the next.

Taking a breath she cracked her neck, bouncing her shoulders slightly. She loosened her grip on the pommel of the dragonglass sword.

As calm as still water.

She blinked once, twice, taking in her opponents as they roared towards her. 

Quick as a snake.

The sword sank into the first wight with ease and it fell to the floor. Another followed. Then another.

Arya moved as Syrio had taught her, using the sword as an extension of her arm. She didn’t play with the wights, only struck to kill.

Up, left, left. Down, Right, through the middle. Across. Left, left, down.

The jagged edge of the dragonglass carved through flesh again and again. Arya snarled as her right eye swam with red.

Wights continued to crawl over one another to get to her, she swung the weapon at the wight to her right barely catching it before the rusted steel sank into her ribs. This delayed reaction shifted the fight and both Arya and the wights seemed to sense it. They came at her faster, and with large swings.

She felt her own movements become frantic as the blood clouded her eye. There was too much noise for her to narrow her focus. The dragonglass blade swung unpracticed as her training sword had when she was but eight and in the rings with her brothers.

As another wight fell to a blow across the face pain erupted in Arya’s left side and she howled. She saw the flash of steel and blood as it pulled from her side. Roaring Arya brought the dragonglass blade down in a hard arc, slamming the jagged edges into the dead man’s side. The blade bit through rib and lung.

As the wight fell Arya felt the resistance of the blade. She gave a panicked jerk but the forged stone remained embedded into the wight’s side.

Arya scrambled backwards as a wight lunged for her. Both slammed into the door behind her, the wight screeching in her ear.

Seeing the wight lift it’s blade Arya grabbed the bone of the arm just below the socket and pulled with all her might. She strained against the sinew that held the bone in place, but with another sharp tug the bone came loose and clattered to the ground.

Disarmed the wight lunged again, it’s boney fingers finding her throat and it’s teeth snapping. Arya attempted to shove the creature off, but it had the weight of the others pressed against it.

Arya roared again and shove her hands into the wigth’s mouth, her fingers curling around its teeth. The mouth attempted to close around her hands, but Arya resisted and began to pull. She felt the stretch and snap of sinew.

Arya’s grip went slack and she barely felt the teeth bite into her fingers, instead she watched in horror as a wave of wights came careening down the hall.

The masses slammed into the wight pressed against her. Arya roared as the world shifted and she was blinded by white once more—her and the wight smashing down the door. The air was crushed from her lungs as the wights began to pile atop her.

Arya struggled against the one pressed against her and screamed into its face as she frantically felt the stone around her for a weapon of any kind.

The flash of yellow and orange was all she needed, Arya scrambled out from under the weight of the dead pushing herself backwards in a spider crawl as the other wights tangled themselves in an attempt to reach her. 

Suddenly a familiar form was between her and the wights helping her to her feet. Arya almost didn’t recognize the face with her half red vision, but there was no mistaking the one eyed Beric Dondarrion.

The knight shoved her forward and Arya stopped for half a second seeing the hulking figure at the other end, but continued towards the Hound having recognized the scar in the dying firelight of Beric’s sword. Arya ignored the hiss of pain from Beric as she moved forward.

“Come on!” The Hound screamed at her, grabbing her hand and propelling her further down the hall. “Go!”

Arya panted heavily as she limped, listening to the sounds of battle behind her. Looking for a weapon as she moved. She skidded around another corner and could hear the Sers following close behind.

A wight stepped in front of her and before Arya had time to react Beric had slammed into it, pushing both of them towards a snow-lit alcove. Another wight came up behind him and pushed a blade between ribs.

Arya scanned the ground frantically. She spotted the discarded handaxe and stole it as she ran forward. Blade raised, she brought it down at the junction of neck and shoulder of one wight and it crumpled to the ground struggling. She snarled.

Arya turned to hack at the other, but a large hand had ripped her away from the alcove.

The Hound hacked the other wight apart and she turned and sprinted down the hall, the two men following. She faltered at a junction and turned back at the sight of another group of wights. She darted around a corned the knights still close on her heels.

The Hound easily passed her in the hall and she turned back to see the wights almost upon them. Beric limped along the wall and took another knife to the side. He stumbled forward catching himself on the stonework, he reached to the other wall for support and Arya watched as he suspended himself for butchery. Snarling Arya moved towards him, but her feet left the ground as a large arm wrapped around her waist.

The Hound carried her away, but she watched, held the gaze of the knight as he took the swords. His left arm gave out and he stumbled forward after them. Arya howled and kicked at the Hound.

He threw her to the ground once they were through a doorway, but Arya was on her feet with a bouncy and sprinted back toward the door, waiting as Beric stumbled towards them.

When the knight was within reach Arya snatched a buckle of his armor and yanked him inside, the force of the pull causing the knight to roll down the stairs.

Arya moved to him as the Hound barricaded the door, propping the man up so he wouldn’t drown in his own blood. Beric’s one eye searched her face, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Arya could hear no words. She watched as his eye closed and the life leave his body. 

Arya snarled. She had failed again. She had not protected.

 “The Lord brought him back for a purpose.”

Arya turned slowly, picking up the dragonglass dagger Beric had dropped.

“Now that purpose has been served.”

Arya recognized the red witch, “I know you,” she searched the woman with her eyes, looking for something, for a lie, anything.

The witch stepped forward until the space between them was small, “And I know you.” 

Arya slowly stood, and approached. As calm as still water. She tried to even her breathing, to let go of the tension that held tight to every muscle. “You said we’d meet again.” 

“And here we are. At the end of the world.”

Her breathing was almost back in her control. “You said I’d shut many eyes forever.” Arya paused looking for any tell within the red eyes. “You were right about that too.”

The woman almost smiled. “Brown eyes, green eyes,” She paused and Arya felt the heat of the red gaze boring into her own steel grey, “..and blue eyes.”

Arya’s stare was broken by the pounding of flesh against the barred door, the wights screamed and screeched on the other side, she could see the door groaning under the weight it held.

She felt the red woman’s presence as she came a step close, she could smell the ash and fire and spice.

“What do we say to the god of death?”

The sound of the wights slowly fell away and the slow thrum of the blood in her veins was all Arya could hear. She turned to the red woman and saw the understanding.

Arya turned back, giving the door one last glance, “Not Today,” she stepped over a fallen bench, and slipped into the warm embrace of darkness leaving Arya Stark of Winterfell and her many other faces behind. She let the she-wolf slide through her veins, and felt the built up fatigue melt away. She could smell the sharpness of cold on the air, could taste the bloody haze of battle. The grey eyes flared with ice as the she-wolf was loosed. 

She picked up the pace as she wove between corridors, slipping from one shadow to the next, unseen. 

A wight walked listlessly towards her, but she was too fast and too quiet and the body fell with a soft thud as she sprinted pass.

Darting down stairs and up another set of two she dropped behind another wight in the hall and slipped the dragonglass dagger beneath its skull and before its body hit the ground she buried the blade to the hilt into the eye socket of the second.

She slipped down another corridor and reached the open window, glancing out she saw the battle raging below, a battle that was being lost, but she was unconcerned, this she-wolf would sink her teeth into one last body tonight, and it wasn’t any of those below.

Dropping to the small stone ledge beneath the window the she-wolf sped forward gracefully, leaping silently from stonework to stonework with the ease of an animal.

When the wall surrounding the Godswood came into view she dropped between the ramparts. She crouched low and ran along the battlements towards the western edge of the Godswood.

Without any hesitation she leapt from the ramparts flinging herself off the edge of the stone wall.

She was a shadow against the sky. 

Bloodied fingers caught a pale branch of a young weirwood and the she-wolf swung upwards, her feet found purchase lower on the branch as she righted herself and slipped backwards pressing against the trunk as she watched the dead below.

Sliding around the tree the she-wolf lowered herself from branch to branch with ease. Small feet hit the damp earth with stillness. 

The dead were unmoving, all turned toward the heart tree.

Quick as a snake.

Quiet as a shadow.

Calm as still water.

She was everywhere and nowhere at once. A flicker of wind as she danced between the wights with a speed unmatched by any.

As the white hand reached for the pommel of the sword the she-wolf leapt with silent ferocity launching herself into death itself, blade drawn.

The white flesh closed around her throat without mercy. Grey nails pricked and blood beaded around them.

The blue eyes swallowed the grey. As the dagger fell from the she-wolf’s hand death grinned from the deep of the blue.

This she-wolf knew death. And the icey grey smiled back with wild savagery.

The blue dilated as the dagger met armor.

The she-wolf snarled pushing valyrian steel between the fourth and fifth ribs.

A way to a man’s heart.

_Valar morghulis._

Death exploded and the she-wolf fell to her knees.

 


	2. During Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya faces death and the consequences of her actions. Post 8x03.

The dead fell around her, bodies shattering and falling into the snow.

Blood pounded through her ears, heart hammering.

The she-wolf turned to the pack member and the wise blue eyes only saw understanding.

Protect the pack.

Kill that which is already dead.

The she-wolf pushed herself to her feet, vaylrian steel clutched tightly.

She attempted to howl, to draw the rest of the pack, but her throat burned with fiery ice as it stretched and moved.

The snow fell gently as the wind died, the flakes drifting to-and-fo as they fell to the earth.

Inhaling she could smell the dead, the cold, and the blood. A bloody ice crystal haze still hung in the air.

The fingers holding the dagger twitched.

Listening. Watching. Waiting.

Red stained the vision of the she-wolf. She blinked, the haze grew.

As calm as still water.

The she-wolf was frozen, muscles poised to kill.

She could hear the distance sound of bodies.

At the crunch of snow the she-wolf’s head whipped around. Through the red she could see a figure approaching.

It grew closer, stumbling forward using a sword as a cane.

Weak.

This would be an easy one.

The muscles tensed further, the she-wolf lying in wait. The figure paused then rushed forward.

Teeth barred, the she-wolf snarled ignoring the pain that ripped through her neck.

   “Wait.”

The words were muffled, but they came from behind her.

The approaching figure slowed, the stopped.

She snarled again, curling fingers more tightly around the hilt of the dagger.

   “Bran.”

The call came before her, muffled as the last. The figure moved forward again and she growled lifting the dagger.

Over the shoulder of the figure she saw more coming. Backing up towards her pack member, the she-wolf showed her teeth, she snapped at the air.

Protect.

Her left eye blinked closed, and the stickiness of blood held it shut, and she had to work to get it open. When she did the figures were closer. She snarled again.

They were speaking, she could hear the sounds, but they were muffled. One approached and she leapt forward snarling. Another pulled the figure out of the way of the bite of the dagger. She snarled again, shoulders drawing up around her neck, hackles lifting.

Protect the pack.

The figures were talking, shifting, moving. She growled again, there were too many, her vision too red.

The snow shifted and soft, familiar footfalls entered the woods.

The figures moved again, and the she-wolf felt the shift in the air. She watched as a hulking shape came forward, moving slowly, feet nearly silent on the snow.

She snarled again. The hulking shape came closer. Head hung low.

She caught the sent of fresh blood and home. She snarled again.

But a low growl, nearly a whine cut through in reply.

The beast moved closer, slowly, until it stood directly before her, head still held low.

The she-wolf was ripped from her body as the beast touched her and watched from a different set of red eyes.

The head turned back towards the figures standing in a loose circle and she saw familiar faces through the unstained eyes. The head swung back and suddenly she was looking upon herself, whites of the eyes stained deep red with blood. She could smell the wounds that littered her body. The nose twitched and a strange, unfamiliar smell met the air. The eyes fell to the large blistering blue and black handprint around the neck and a growl rumbled through their body.

Once more she was ripped from the body and felt the cold metal of the dagger in her hand. She was standing, breathing heavily into Ghost’s coat. The direwolf licked her face and she lifted her arm wiping her eyes.

She blinked, her vision still tinted with pink, but the faces were clear now. She saw the red hair of another wolf staring at her wide eyed; next to her the tall, scarred wolf; the old, grey-bearded wolf; the hulking, wild red coated wolf; and the black wolf who stared at her with pain.

The pack.

They were here.

They were safe.

Protected.

As though a goblet of ice water had slowly been poured atop her head, the she-wolf gradually melted away.

It was like waking from a dream or entering a cold lake, Arya was the she-wolf, but she felt as if she was stepping into her body anew as the bloodlust faded.

Arya swallowed heavily and the act alone felt as though her throat was being torn asunder. Arya took a step forward, unsure how she was still upright. Her muscles screamed in protest. The three wounds one her sides searing her nearly blind. Her head swam, throbbed, and pounded like a hammer to steel with every thought, breath, and movement.

_“Jon.”_

The word caught in her throat. She could barely hear the garbled speech as it crossed her lips. She fell forward watched as the snow rushed up to meet her. To take her home.

Long, warm arms rolled her over and she attempted to smile as her brother drew her into his lap. Sansa’s face appeared next to Jon’s.

Arya lifted her hand to her sister’s face, she was shaking as a leaf in the wind, as weak as one. Her sister grabbed her bloodied hand and pressed it to her cheek and Arya relished in the warmth as her fingers held the porcelain, staining it red. Arya turned to look into the grey eyes of her own and saw tears there as well.

Arya blinked as her vision blurred. The pink tinge began to fade and she felt the tears clear small tracks through the blood on her face.

Arya opened her mouth to speak, her throat blinding her with pain. She forced her eyes open, _“..protected.”_

She could see Sansa nodding through both their tears. Arya felt Jon rocking her slowly, clutching her tightly to his chest.

 _“Today.”_ Arya croaked. _“Today.”_

She closed her eyes.

“Arya!”

    “Arya!”

The sounds fell away, Jon’s frantic calling dying in the low wind. She felt a snowflake hit her face, and felt the gentle caress of the rising dawn.

* * *

Opening her eyes Arya found herself lying on the soft damp earth before the heart tree. She pushed herself to her knees and took in her surroundings.

She was in the godswood, in Winterfell’s godswood. But there was no snow. Only a soft, warm breeze that made the red leaves whisper.

Arya shifted to her feet in a fluid motion.

There were no bodies littering the ground. No red staining the snow. No stench of death.

This was peaceful.

This was home.

“Arya.”

Arya felt her heart drop like a stone. She stilled. Swallowing the weight in her throat Arya turned toward the direction of the voice.

Ned Stark stood twenty paces from her, staring at her like she was going to disappear.

“Arya.” He whispered again, the wind carrying the soft, strong call to her.

Tears welled in Arya’s eyes, blurred her vision. And then she was in the arms of her father and everything, all of the weight and responsibilities Arya had been carrying fell to her feet like discarded armor. She stood in her father arms and cried all the tears she’d never been able to cry.

“Shhh, there now my child. It will be alright.” He stroked her hair and held her close and let her cry.

Slowly, after crying herself dry, Arya pulled away from her father, and saw the warmth of the Stark grey welcoming her home.

Ned lifted a hand as his eyes landed on her neck. Arya reached it before he could and felt the scarred, rough skin left in the clear shape of a handprint.

Ned pulled her hand away and his fingers, gentle as Arya remembered they could be, traced the edge of the wound.

“My wild she-wolf.”

Ned dropped his hand away from her neck and pressed his forehead into her.

“My brave she-wolf. I am so proud of you.”

Arya felt a few more tears leave tracks on her face as she nodded against him.

Her father smiled and she pulled back to look over his face once more, to take in every detail she thought she’d forgotten. But he hadn’t changed.

The air turned sharp, the breeze died, and Arya’s belly filled with panic.

She felt her senses heighten, heard the sound of a leaf breaking away from the heart tree, could smell the bite of winter coming, and could see the ice blade materialize in the space between her and her father.

The blade drew together as it arched before her eyes, she screamed silently as her father’s grey eyes closed, the blade biting into the flesh of his neck.

He dropped to one knee, then the other, and as his body fell to the earth Ned Stark’s head rolled away.

Arya screamed soundlessly as her tears fell and her rage grew. She turned eyes following sharply along the blade of the sword to the hand that held the pommel. Grey eyes met the blue of death, and the Night King stare at her unflinching.

“Today.”

Darkness roared around her, and then slammed into her, exploding into agony.


End file.
